Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

Match” theme party, but it might as well be my last. Cora was smart to stay in Phoenix and get some beauty sleep. It’s not so much the random name tag that the guests need to wear that bothers me. It’s more the whole ambiance.

The large living room is jam-packed with guys reeking of Natty Light and sweat and girls who probably borrowed their tops from their seven-year-old sisters. That or they just don’t know that most fabrics shrink when washed at ninety degrees. Almost all of them are wiggling their bodies to some loud R&B tune I’ve never heard before, but which Hope seems to know, because her chin moves to the rhythm.

“It could be worse.” She gives me an encouraging smile.

“How?” I observe a guy do a Chris Brown turn, dumping the contents of his plastic cup on his partner’s cleavage in the process.

“Well…” Hope adjusts her sandy tresses that Cora helped her blow-dry before we left. “We could be obliged to wear costumes, but we aren’t.”

I picture myself in a red, hooded cape and cringe.

Okay, she’s got a point.

“Also,” Hope counts on her finger, “we arrived after the organizers began doing the Grimm Brothers. Before that, the Greek gods must’ve been the leading inspiration for matching up folks, because I just saw Hera and Zeus pass by.”

I pat my tag. “I don’t know about you, but I’d trade Little Red for Aphrodite.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for.” Hope flashes me a cheeky smile. “Her husband was Hephaestus, and he had a face only a mother could love. Besides”—she peers down at her own name—“I like being Snow White. I’ll get a prince and seven cute dwarfs, right?”

I snort. “I don’t think the organizers respect each storyline that meticulously.”

Hope’s mouth curls down, then she sighs. “Fine. Then just one prince.”

“Finding even one acceptable partner in this mess of losers will be hard,” I murmur.

Hope giggles. “I’m not placing high hopes on my mate. The rules only ask for the pairs to share a drink and a dance. I think I can do that with anyone, as long as he doesn’t puke on me. Even with a bumpkin.”

“Good.” I grin at her. “Because that’s all we’ve got here, I believe.”

We glance around the room to test my last statement’s truth. Unfortunately, I nailed it.

My eyes drift to a group of men in the kitchen. Instead of magical names, the sign, Sober Monitor, is stuck to their neon green shirts. The brightness of their uniform only stresses the smugness on their faces.

Hope follows my glance and shakes her head. “Look at them. They act like they’re the hottest thing since sliced bread. I can’t believe those gals buzzing around them like hungry flies around a juicy peach. Can’t they see that they’ve got no true chutzpah?”

Chutzpah is a word I’ve never heard anyone use except for Hope.

My friend claims that it’s common vocabulary in her hometown. Her mom used it to teach Hope the difference between a spineless jerk—Hope’s father—and a person worthy of one’s love—Hope’s stepmother.

“I don’t think those girls are searching for charisma. It’s enough for them that the guys hold the key element of tonight’s success in their hands”—I wiggle my eyebrows at Hope—“aka, warm keg beer.”

A tall guy with messy brown hair, kind eyes, and a proud chin, steps over to us. “Where did you leave your dwarves, my princess?” he asks Hope and shows his name tag.

It confirms that he’s my friend’s destined date.

Relief floods Hope’s face. “Ah, thank heavens, you’re semi-normal.”

The guy seems startled by her I give it to you straight style, but he must decide that Hope’s spectacular cheekbones and smoky eyes outweigh her snarkiness, because he grins back at her. “Indeed, I am. And you, you’re fabulous. Come, let’s have a drink.”

Hope gives me an apologetic glance, and I nod encouragingly. They march off in the direction of the kitchen.

When I’m alone, I check all the exits at my disposal. There’s a corridor leading to the backyard, but, judging by the snuggly couples sneaking in that direction, it won’t be my best option to escape if I need to. The only other way to leave this party is through the door we used to come in.

After making this mental list, I amble to the table where the party crew laid out the food.

A girl beside me picks up a potato chip, takes a bite, then drops it back into the bowl.

Okaaay…I guess I’ll just make a snack once we get back to our dorms.

I turn and stride back to my previous spot. It’s a rather strategic location, close enough to the toilets if my destined mate turns out to be worse than Hephaestus. Still, far away from the dancers so I don’t get an accidental jab in my ribs.

A chubby guy dashes toward me with an eager glint in his eyes, and I wince. Luckily, he passes by me and heads to the kitchen to refill his plastic cup.

After twenty minutes of standing alone, I’m almost lured into the fantasy that my fairy tale match must’ve already left the party or, better yet, never arrived.

My shoulders relax.

As if the DJ senses my mood, he puts on a song I actually like. I wave my hips to music while my eyes scan the crowd aimlessly.

Out of the blue, a baritone calls out behind my back.

“It seems my hunt is over. At last.”

The voice has a hint of familiarity, though it’s playfully deepened.

I whip around, and my jaw drops when I meet Wyatt’s eyes. With the dimmed light, they glimmer like two Hershey’s Kisses.

My brother’s best friend swipes his longish honey tresses that are infuriatingly stylish—which isn’t fair because I know he does nothing to them besides wash them—behind his ears and grins at me. “Aren’t you going to ask me why my hands are so beastly big?”

His hands? Why would he say that his hands are big?

Wyatt has always carried his solid, trimmed muscles with way more grace than any other boy I’ve ever met. I’ve